


Fire Meet Trebuchet

by Eureka234



Series: I Was There When You Wanted Me Least [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Confrontations, Dragon Age Kink Meme, F/M, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Jealousy, Redemption, Suicide Attempt, The Winter Palace (Dragon Age), Trespasser DLC, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-06-02 19:39:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6579769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eureka234/pseuds/Eureka234
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dagna is granted the Inquisitor's permission to bring Samson to the Exalted Council, on the condition that Dagna is his handler. A Kink Meme Prompt Fill. One shot. Same timeline and OCs as "Samson's Shield of Shame" and "Once we Were", but details are vague enough that it is not necessary to be familiar with these. Minor Trespasser spoilers. </p><p>Filled for the Dragon Age Kink Meme. Prompt "Samson Cullen happy ending" here: http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/16181.html?thread=62164021#t62164021<br/>It is not completely identical to the prompt, but here it is anyway. SFW. </p><p>Trigger warning for mentions of suicide.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fire Meet Trebuchet

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time writing from a Kink Meme Prompt, so wish me luck. It follows the same timeline of my other stories "Samson's Shield of Shame' and "Once We Were", although I left story details about certain OCs deliberately vague to avoid spoilers.
> 
> The title is based off the Sia song, "Fire Meet Gasoline", to refer to the conflict that Samson and Cullen experience, even if the song is mostly about sex hah. Enjoy.

 

9:44 Dragon.

"Wretched Orlesian Palaces'!" Samson cursed, his eyes barely open. He had slept for a large duration of the trip to Halamshiral in the Inquisition carriage, but for no longer. The noise was overwhelming, torturous even. By Corypheus's remains, the racket made his head want to split open. To make matters worse the leather seats were hot and the scent choking.  _It'll be good for him_ , they said. _All in kindred spirit_ , they promised. Bullshit. If the General had his way, he'd set the entire Winter Palace on fire. That'll make it better, make them asphyxiate in terror. Then it would be a Red Palace, awash in the crimson flames of victory.

As someone pulled on his bindings, he felt the slap of cold iron against his wrists.

"Cheer up, Samson," piped a too joyful voice. "The noise is half the fun. Besides, it's only for five or ten more minutes."

_Only five?!_

"Don' matter," Samson muttered with a groan, wiping some drool off his stubble. "S' too long."

He didn't like it when Dagna pulled on his chains. Actually, he didn't like shackles at all, though it was the only condition that he had been permitted outside of Skyhold. That didn't mean he received any choice on what his excursion would be. Samson never warmed to the idea of going to Orlais, no matter how bloody comfortable the carriage seats were going to be. 

"We'll be out of this stuffy carriage before you know it – wonderful! Look at all the colors!"

By the sudden influx of bright pink behind his closed eyelids, he guessed Dagna was pressing her face against the window. The dwarf shook his chains excitedly and they made a tinkling sound, almost like a musical instrument. "Wow, it's beautiful. There's nothing like it in Orzammar. You're missing out, Samson."

"Doubt it," Samson grumbled, but he tried to open his eyes anyway. It was a bad idea. Immediately, he was blinded with sun and reflection of bright velvet fabrics from the rows of onlookers outside.

This outcome was that smarmy Cullen's doing. The headache was that prick's fault, like how the bumpy path up mountains, awful weather and terrible lunch choice was also the Commander's fault. He had been present during the trial and supported the Inquisitor's decision to send Samson to be researched like a rat. Later he learned Cullen was probably biased because he received many kisses from the Inquisitor Trevelyan. 

Out of everyone who could be responsible for the downsides of the trip, it may be Dagna, though the General would rather blame anyone else. it had been the arcanist that suggested bringing Samson to Orlais for the Exalted Council and had convinced the Inquisitor to agree, yet over many years of interaction Samson had developed patience, even benevolence, for the dwarf. 

Maybe he could blame the Inquisitor. 

It had been four years since he stopped his regular supply of red lyrium and was forced to enter withdrawal against his will. Unsure of what to expect, and taken aback by the chaos that followed, the nurses had provided him with doses of blue lyrium when his vital signs dwindled. It was something that bothered them at first, although they eventually concluded that abstinence might not be possible for him, a lifelong addict with a thirst for the red.

After a number of months, the final verdict had been determined. Samson was instructed to take a small dose of custom made lyrium once a month by a needle, which the nurses held onto in a wooden box. His health was made more complicated with his refusal to eat. The prisoner was force fed much of the first year and his appetite still wasn't normal. The surgeons blamed it on a brain condition, which Dagna aptly called his 'brokenness'. The General didn't like his brokenness, but it made Dagna put up with him.

Over months of being her test subject, they talked more and more. The nurses used to separate Dagna and Samson when his withdrawals or moods spiraled out of control. However, once the dwarf had listened to enough of his rambling, he became more likely to eat, so the nurses left the consoling to her and didn't interrupt their talks. Separating the two wasn't doing any good. Sadly since leaving the fortress behind his incessant low mood and withdrawal had not improved. Most of the time, he wanted to die or sleep, so he slept, often hoping withdrawal would kill him in his dreams or waking hours. 

Now that his concentration was returning, Samson's stomach growled. He didn't care what he ate right now, even if it was served on a platter with garnishes he didn't recognize.

"Where we goin' again?" he mumbled, trying to look at the back of Dagna's head so he didn't have to hurt his eyes.

"The Winter Palace! Afraid I don't have more specifics about when we can eat next," Dagna said, turning back to him. Upon seeing Samson's expression, she pulled the curtain over the window, "Sorry! I forget how sensitive your eyes are. I got way too excited."

The man didn't correct Dagna - he meant 'where _exactly_ in The Palace were they going?'.

"'Least I'm not spoiling it for the only one in the entire bloody Inquisition who wants to be here," Samson managed a small smile, which probably looked like a painful grimace. "What are we gonna be doin' first?"

"Ooh…" Considering it, Dagna clapped her palms on her thighs. "I would really, _really_ love to look around. Will that bother you? It could be fun!"

Samson sighed. "So long as it's quiet."

"I'll be quiet. I'll be _wholly_ unobtrusive," Dagna promised, her voice turning to a whisper.

"Not _you_ ," the former General muttered, "I mean… ah, who knows."

The two fell silent as the carriage lightly turned to the right and began to slow. Samson listened to all the vague chatter in Orlesian accents and wondered what they were saying. Did they care that Corypheus's General was going to be attending their fancy, privy but inevitably shit event?

He filled his head with images of possibilities as the carriage halted. How would his old friends from the Gallows dress if they were here? If their smiles were just as vibrant, would they want to talk to him right now? Samson didn't know, but he liked pretending that they would sit beside him in silence like the arcanist. No judgments, if that was possible, but he knew he was asking a lot. It might be a dream.

It was the only dream he wished was real. 

"By the Stone, masked Orlais Ambassador approaching!" Dagna said suddenly. "I thought he'd take longer to get to us – hey, Samson – can you do me the biggest favor and look dead? That's the best idea I have."

 _Finally something that isn't beyond me,_ Samson smiled, and he pretended to be asleep as the carriage door opened.

"Good afternoon, Madame Dagna. I understand you are the Inquisition's Arcanist?" said a lightly accented man, "My name is Duke Cyril de Montfort. I will representing Orlais in the Exalted Council this evening. The Inquisitor informed me you had brought an…uhm, escort? I would like to verify if you requisite additional support?"

Samson attempted to stifle his snort. the slyness of holding back insults was the unmistakable tone of the Game. This Ambassador knew exactly who Samson was, but he wasn't going to risk his reputation by using harsher language.

"No need for help, Mister Duke ser," the dwarf said earnestly, giving a tug on the chains, "but thank you, _very_ much. The Palace is so beautiful, it looks great. My escort will be on his best behavior even if he's sickly. Can I come see you if I go back on my word?"

"Of course, madame," although it sounded like Duke Cyril would rather clean a toilet. "I apologize, but I have other preparations to attend to. Bon soir."

"Bon soir!" Dagna repeated. When the man was well out of earshot, the dwarf turned to Samson, "Let's get out of the crowd."

The 'escort' exit the carriage after Dagna, feeling the same fatigue he usually did, keeping his head down so he didn't have to stare into judgmental eyes.

He was relieved that Dagna didn't pull on his chains. She was a nice girl.

* * *

They got ten steps away when the loud mouth dwarf found them.

"Didn't expect to see you here, Arcanist!" he said happily, though Samson recognized him by his boots and voice. "You got Lackey out of his cage?"

Scumbag novelist thought he was useless too. Samson wretched to spit on Varric's boots, but realized too late this would reflect badly on Dagna, so swallowed it back down, leaving a film of drool gleaming on his lips.

"Sorry," Samson grunted, coming up with a quick alibi, "Got travel sickness."

"I'm not surprised," Varric said, "I think anybody shut up indoors for as long as you would get dizzy sitting up."

"Samson," Dagna assured him under her breath, "Remember to look at people and smile – like we practiced on the way here? Remember? A big, generous smile!"

"Oh. Right."

It wasn't difficult to execute this basic etiquette, Samson simply chose not to, too tired, too depressed or too pissed off at everybody. Lifting his heavy head, he met the dwarf's grey eyes with his and gave his best imitation of a grin.

Varric chuckled. "Are you sure having him smile is a good idea, Arcanist? I'll be honest with you. It's more terrifying than Cassandra's I'm-going-to-murder-you face."

"Wet yourself or not," Samson croaked, "A smile is a smile, ain't it?"

He looked down at Dagna as she gave a small tug on his chain, "You're so mean, Varric, and wrong. It's perfect!"

"If that's what you decree as perfect, Arcanist," Varric said, starting to walk away, "then maybe I need to re-evaluate how I approach pretty ladies in their masks."

Samson sighed, but tried to keep his chin up. He felt more exhausted out of the carriage than in it. An Orlesian in the Inquisition lend him an outfit, but he still didn't feel handsome. There was no way to make his hair look good when most of it had fallen out or thinned, and nothing could clear his blood stained eyes. According to the dwarf, only those who understood his woes considered his grin charming.

Despite the plan to move from the crowd, Dagna found herself stopped by many other Inquisition members on the way. Samson took in turns trying to smile at whoever it was making conversation, observing the extravagant pavement, fountains and railing, all the while his own mantra went on in his mind – _blah, blah, blah, blah, blah…._

To the other Orlesian nobles, it would be difficult to determine who was in charge out of the pair. Neither of them pulled on the chains, and they walked with their ankles in line. The only difference was sometimes Samson chose which direction to walk, or Dagna did. The researcher and her subject avoided talking in case somebody interpreted it as an invitation to join in.

Samson had to admit that the Winter Palace was pretty, but too bloody expensive. With every piece of lost property, Samson wanted to sell it, throw it over the balcony or at the Inquisitor's head, but Dagna collected it in a satchel instead.

They eventually sat down on the edge of a small pool, each with a statue inside. There were many of these spas, but this one was empty. It was Samson's idea to come here.

"I don't think we came prepared for this," Dagna said, sadly.

"Eh," Samson sat down on the edge and slid his hand in the water, "Kinder than the tubs in Skyhold."

"Oh, yes. No nurse makes a difference?."

Samson nodded grimly. "They're tiring."

Dagna crossed her legs and circled a finger in the water, "I don't know if this is good news, but if I keep to my deadlines my research on Red Lyrium should be finished in four months."

The former General stared at the dwarf, "Is that some baleful Inquisition tactic?"

The red head shook her head, "Really. After that – I'd need to check with the Inquisitor, I think - but I can't see why she won't let you have a little independence. Do you get it? You'll be free."

"Don't trample on a retired soldier's hopes, bookworm," Samson said, placing another hand in the water.

"I promise I'm not," Dagna urged, "I mean – it was more to open up possibilities. Do you still not know what you'd do outside Skyhold?"

Samson hesitated and focused on the glimmer of a statue on the pool furthest away. He hadn't thought he'd be alive after this rubbish, was more surprised no one had killed him in his sleep, or had given up being patient. All these years later, he still couldn't find much will to live, regardless of the effort and care others took. It was like his purpose had been destroyed with Corypheus.

It was no secret that he'd fucked up one too many times in life, to a severe extent, and he'd had a history of cock ups ever since he was dismissed from the Gallows more than ten years ago. Samson lost his friends, had barely made amends with the ones who had visited him in Undercroft. Even those two had moved on and hadn't shown their faces since.

Without his Red Templars, he had no family or sense of belonging, even if they'd all turned into monsters or brutally torn apart. They were his _fellow_ monsters. The Inquisition didn't see that, didn't perceive him as a soul that once had feelings, merely saw him as a tool. Maybe he'd been a tool before, but there was no comradeship in this job. Except for Dagna, though she was the only one. 

Blight take it, he was so bloody tired. The former General was no fool. Dagna was an alright dwarf, but her kindness and interest in his life barely kept him holding on. She agreed his memories were terrible, ranted to the Inquisitor about his 'brokenness' – what use did Thedas have for a shattered person?

The nurses still checked on him like a dying Grey Warden – enough water? Enough food? Make him eat more. Make him drink more. Don't let him sleep all the time. So many bleeding rules, and for what? To make him miserable.

Samson felt dejected no matter what, remained flatly numb irrespective of the lightness of conversation or brightness of the sun. He still wanted to die. Even in the middle of a Palace, blessed with a once in a lifetime opportunity.

He still wanted to die.

Samson removed his hands from the water, lowered his head and started to wrap the chains around his neck.

Dagna knew what he was doing.

"Hey!" she lifted them off, moved behind him and kept a firm grip on the metal, so he had no means to manipulate it. It was the usual procedure for attempted suicide.

Samson smirked. It took a special kind of ruin to justify this routine happening.

"Don't give up yet, not yet," Dagna tried to say, "I mean, maybe Phillipa or Zoe…"

"No," Samson interrupted before the dwarf could finish. If it was anybody else, he wouldn't have let her suggest anything, but Dagna knew his whole life. She knew who he'd touched, who he'd pushed away, and the ones who'd forgiven him.

That didn't mean she had all the answers.

"I'm sure there's a way to find out where they're living," Dagna said tentatively, "There's no point giving up trying? If you wrote to them…"

" _No,_ " he repeated.

"You don't have to do this by yourself," the dwarf insisted. She slackened her grip on the chains. "Every time I try to get by on my own I do something really stupid and feel bad about it afterward."

"It's not that," Samson said in a small voice. It wasn't that he didn't want to write to the girls, but he was afraid. His mind could only see death, and functioning seemed impossible now. "Trying is foolish. You think I've learned nothing?"

Dagna pulled on the chain, "Are you going to do the bad thing if I sit next to you?"

"I won't," Samson assured her.

Even if he still wanted to die, he'd be good for Dagna.

They resumed their places, drawing patterns in the water. There was only the sounds of flowing pool for a while.

"What about… Commander Cullen?"

Samson felt his body froze at the name.

"I mean, he's still here," Dagna pointed out, "Round this Palace someplace! I know it's all been crazy, a terrible, _hideous_ mess, but I bet he's the type to want to clean it up, if you're willing to grab a mop and lend a hand."

Samson paused. He gazed over back to where the crowd was, where Cullen might be. "You think so?"

If the arcanist was any other person, he wouldn't have considered her opinion valuable at all, but she was different. She was a cheerful sort, the kind of happy he wanted to feel, but simply didn't think it was possible to match. She was smart enough, anyhow, had many stories of her own. More importantly, her mess ups in life were comparable to those of a toddler.

Samson didn't want any more screw ups.

"I'll bet you on it!" Dagna said excited, "What do you say? Are you up for a challenge?"

Samson paused, tempted to bet five hundred sovreigns. "Yeah? You want to fight me?"

"I bet! Check out my muscles!" the dwarf exclaimed. She raised her hands into fists. "You think an arcanist can't fight? You think I've only got runes and books in this brain? Come on!"

Forgetting the fact they were supposed to be entering the Exalted Council soon, Samson leaned forward to place his hands on Dagna and, with the remains of his strength, pushed her into the water. She yelped in shock, as loud as the splash, and the man laughed as her angry face showed itself on the surface. She'd let go of the chains in the process, and Samson reeled them in like a fishing line. The dwarf wasn't getting them back.

"That's not fair. You know, you're a big cheater!" Dagna protested, climbing out of the water. On all fours, she caught her breath, "Creators, I have no idea what to do now."

Samson chuckled. He didn't want to talk to Cullen, but, today, he trusted the dwarf enough to try. "If I talk to Commander Cuntface and all goes to the gutter, I want you to let me walk around Skyhold until you finish your research."

It wasn't from the Winter Palace, or even the water, but the understanding that he was running out of time. Samson had to decide and make a decision on his fate yet again. It was so difficult to be sturdy and faithful, when there was no stability and no trust placed in him.

Except for Dagna.

She squeezed water out of her sleeves. "That's the Inquisitor's decision, not mine."

"Ask then," Samson said, "In that case, nick Orlesian desserts from the kitchens– no! Wine. Have a drink with pathetic lackey Samson. I want all the prizes."

"I'll do that, even it goes to the Deep Roads," Dagna said, "Except if it goes well, I want you to write to…"

Samson already knew what she was going to say. "How many times do I have to …"

"Are you betting?" Dagna wouldn't take no for an answer. "Or are you betting?"

Samson glared at the cheerful little dwarf. She was pressing the water out of her hair. Writing to his old friends was a stupid idea, but… Dagna was an alright kid.

Pushing some of the water that had dripped from Dagna into the pool, his expression flattened to the creepy emptiness most knew him for. Finally, the former enemy of the Inquisition outstretched a hand.

"I am willing to pay the price," Samson said, solemnly reminded of the evening he joined forces with Corypheus.

Dagna took Samon's chains back and returned the handshake, "I'm so excited! Let's go see him, right now!"

Only, as they head back to the crowd Josephine stopped them and urged Dagna to not enter the Exalted Council until her clothes were dry.

* * *

Samson was surprised he didn't feel nervous trying to find the Inquisition's Commander. In the lows of his addiction emotions had been torn from him. Now in a permanent state of semi-withdrawal, it wasn't much different, but there was a flicker of something he hadn't felt since meeting Corypheus – hope.

Samson and Dagna were shocked they couldn't find Cullen anywhere, so sought the help of Seeker Pentaghast, who brought them to a space away from the masked freaks and whispered.

"Do not tell a soul, but the Commander and his Inquisitor are mid-way through a wedding ceremony in the south Winter Palace gardens. If you must go, do so slowly and without commotion."

"A _wedding_?!" Dagna's eyes lit up enough for the two of them.

Cassandra gave a scolding expression. "Shh! They were not supposed to be so…. impulsive in their courtship."

"We didn't hear a word, madam," Samson said humbly, bringing back whatever was left of his Templar manners.

Seeker Pentaghast looked affronted. "Very well." She paced away slowly, "Please refrain from asking me again."

Samson wondered why Inquisition members looked more insulted when he was polite rather than a raging storm.

* * *

The two snuck away to the gardens, changing to a tip toe the closer they became. Wedding laced poetry was being spouted by whoever was taking up the role of a priest.

"I can't believe they're having a wedding _right now_!" Dagna whispered, for the tenth time.

"Shuddap." Samson was tempted to put a hand over her mouth, even if he agreed with her.

Cullen get married? The former General only knew the Commander had been in a relationship through Dagna, and even that was hard to believe given how pathetic, fidgety and flustered Templar Cullen used to be. Never mind it was the Inquisitor, somebody who clearly had no taste in men.

"Good point." She admitted.

The pair stopped moving and sat down behind a pair of bushes, far from the couple's eyes. It was possible to peer through the small branches and leaves to see glimpses of the ceremony.

Samson had to admit, despite hating Orlais on principle of its Chantry roots, it was a fitting location for a wedding. The country had romantic foliage and fauna, rich with color and radiance, especially in one of the capital's Palace. The garden was so _fucking_ green, pink… and the sunlight made it gorgeous.

The former General observed the Inquisitor. Compared to that drab outfit she wore around Skyhold, she was a completely different person here. Not a warrior, a Herald of Andraste, leader of the Inquisition, or the bitch who decided Samson's fate – she was a woman, a bride, a stunning one at that, a white dove, bringer of peace.

He wanted peace.

If she'd been anybody else, Samson would have been jealous, but he harbored a grudge, even if she pitied more than hated him.

This wasn't the same Inquisitor. He couldn't hate a bride, not when her smile was visible from this far in the distance.

Hearing a bark, his eyes spotted a Mabari, wagging his tail nearby. Who's moronic idea was that? The Mabari must be a witness to their matrimony, not the Maker, friends, or family.

_Cullen, probably._

Samson gave a lopsided smirk. Typical that wussy Cullen wanted a puppy near him when he got married. The man had always been co-dependent and childish at heart. Still, the dog was… cute. Could probably play catch and knew how to play. Samson wanted nothing more than to give it a belly rub and scratch behind its ears with exclamations of 'Good puppy' and 'Nice puppy'.

Innocent times were lovely and so few.

Dagna's wide grin was frozen on her face as she listened to the words, "I do," fall from both lovers lips.

Samson finally beheld Cullen. Flaming Andraste, so much anger remained. It was impossible not to associate the Commander with judgement, betrayal, and an infinite number of other insults. Cock head Cullen. Cunt faced Commander. Bastard. Chantry worshipper scum. Virgin. Even when he was dressed in a red, Orleasian inspired suit, as he smiled and his eyes beamed with love, Samson's fury boiled as hot as it ever did.

Cullen didn't _deserve_ love. He didn't deserve a title, glory and friends. But he still had it.

Commander Cullen didn't merit a lover or a wife… but now he had one.

Both men had cycled through titles over the years, with debated usefulness. Their year in Kirkwall's Circle, the two friends gossiped of kisses and self-loathing, but Cullen now had something Samson didn't – a life partner.

 _Piss on it._ He clenched his teeth so hard he thought they might break, _Cullen beat me._

Losing. All gone. Again.

Jealousy poured in his heart and resentment gnawed at his bones. Regardless of who was the better man, the greater fighter, more talented with a sword, Commander Cullen had outlived Samson at last, without any doubt. He had a woman, and Samson didn't. That wasn't an opinion that could be overthrown in a heated debate; it wasn't a philosophical difference that kept them rivals, it was recorded on a piece of paper, a cursed official document. Shit.

Dagna's toothy smile threatened to break her face, eyes twinkling like stars, as though _she'd_ been made a wife. She jumped up and cheered, even if they were supposed to keep quiet. Samson felt too dejected to stop her. The words of congratulations and thank you's to a Mother Giselle were interrupted.

Trevelyan gave a small shriek and covered her mouth, "Dagna!" she heaved, catching her breath, "We didn't think anybody else was here!"

"I… was also under that impression," Cullen said slowly, "but as much as we shied away from an audience, we appreciate the support, in any case."

The newlyweds told Mother Giselle to get ready for the Council, she did, then they paced toward the misfits. The Mabari barked and wagged his tail. Samson wanted to hide, to steal the dog and run, but Dagna tugged on his chains, urging him to stand.

He didn't.

"Congratulations!" the dwarf repeated the word another five times, a breathless rush, "Samson! Samson wanted to talk to you."

" _Samson_?" the Inquisitor and Cullen said in unison.

Great, they were already thinking in sync with each other.

Dagna tugged on the chains again. The couple knew Dagna had been assigned to take care of Samson. There wasn't any way he could hide.

Reluctantly, the former General rose to his feet, but kept his eyes on Cullen and the Inquisitor's too perfect shoes. Bloody Orleasian treasures.

His hands became fists as the footsteps drew nearer.

"I'll admit, seeing you was not in my plans leading up to a honeymoon," Cullen said wearily, "but very well. You've sought me at an, admittedly, impeccable time. I presume it is important, Samson?"

His voice was tired, like usual. Judgmental, like normal... and uncaring, like bloody usual.

"Yes." Samson muttered, feeling how he did when Cullen took on the Champion of Kirkwall's advice and spoke to him openly after a lengthy silence. There was weakness, deprivation and a desire to manipulate, but he couldn't warp this situation. Samson couldn't use this tactic anymore. He wanted to, but Dagna was smart, and he didn't want any more cock ups.

The shoes stopped moving.

"Samson," Cullen repeated, his voice stern, "Don't test my patience, please. We have the Exalted Council to get to in half an hour."

"My husband," the Inquisitor used these words with a lofty pride, "Try to sound nicer."

Cullen took an audible breath. "You're right, dear."

For once, Samson thought he liked the Inquisitor. She knew Cullen's flaws, and she'd make him a better person, she'd make Samson's conversation easier.

The noble Trevelyan was trying to help him.

The lyrium addict jumped as the Mabari's wet nose collided with his thigh and started licking the man's hands, locked in shackles, panting excitedly. He tried to pat the dog, liked how soft it was, how happy it looked. A well behaved, smiling puppy, even if Samson was weak… why couldn't _people_ be like this Mabari?

He cautiously looked to Dagna who said, "Practice what we agreed on, Samson."

 _Smiling?_ Samson thought to himself, _yeah, and make the bride wet herself._

The former enemy of the Inquisition didn't smile, but he met the eyes of Trevelyan first. Evelyn or something, right? Her eyes glittered with joy, as though the moment she was declared a wife was forever integrated with her heart, a spell. It was beautiful. She was beautiful. Her hair was styled to perfection and her make up, classy. Andraste, that smile could have closed the Breach alone.

His old friend, Cullen Rutherford wasn't worthy of her, but he still had her anyway. How the unseen Maker was cruel.

"I offer my sincere congratulations," Samson almost stuttered, nearly inaudible from his hesitation, "May you breathe full, healthy breaths, disrupted only by laughter, devotion and pleasure, until you go to the Maker's side."

"Thank you." Cullen sounded befuddled by the compliment, but Samson only glanced at him. The Commander didn't get it. He had to keep talking to the wife, even if it made him look weak. Absently, he pushed the dog away to bother Dagna.

"Mistress Rutherford," Samson said, lowering his head in respect, "I know the timing is… bloody dreadful… but can I request your husband's help, with what lies in the dregs of my soul?"

Trevelyan's eyes shone with something else now, confusion, and sorrow.

"I, uh…" she turned to Cullen, as though to add – _you should ask him_ \- but the Commander looked furious and couldn't keep to himself.

"Help?!" he repeated, outraged, "You want to ask for _help_ , after all these years – after my wedding – after you ruined Thedas as we know it? We are still rebuilding after the mess left by your Red Templars and Corypheus, all matters that could have been avoided if it was not for your stubbornness and – Maker preserve you, Dagna - _brokenness_."

Samson was lost whether to feel fear or self righteous at the scene. Cullen's anger would have made Corypheus gloat with pride.

"Why should I offer help, when you should have asked years ago, over a _decade_ ago, when you had every opportunity? When you denied _help_ from every direction - every person – no matter how kind and patient - who approached you? No matter how many times they wanted to offer guidance and held a willingness to put their thoughts aside? No matter how again and again you pushed and pulled and struggled against them?"

"Cullen!" Trevelyan squeezed Cullen's hand, appearing sad, "Please, don't be like this now. Not here. Settle – _calm_ down."

The Commander let out an audible yell from annoyance and his hair fell out of its perfect alignment in this process, his fists thrown to his sides. As all this happened, Samson kept still and silent. He knew this anger, had felt it within himself, and heard it from many others, like Zoe. Cullen was not wrong about any of this. It was true. The drugs had wrecked him; but even before the lyrium, his brokenness had been eating at his core like a parasite. His vulnerability was the real enemy. He didn't like leaning on others, despite a longing to.

But Samson didn't like his brokenness; he didn't want any more mistakes. That is why he needed to be better than Cullen right now and not explode in rage. Gulping hard, Samson looked down at the grass again. He noticed his knees and elbows were shaking, making the shackles rattle, making music, but not one of delight, but a drum roll.

"Samson, are you okay?" Dagna asked, but her voice was overthrown by Trevelyan.

"Please Cullen, try not to yell at him." she pressured, "He already knows all this. I think. That's right, isn't it Dagna? If I'm remembering correctly…"

"You bet he does." the dwarf jumped to Samson's defense.

Cullen paced within a very small amount of space and racked his brain, a pattern of behaviour Samson knew well, nearly spitting in the intensity of it. While the former General didn't see it, he heard the plodding of the fancy shoes on the grass, with that very rhymic pounding, that unmistakable march, "You – I'm sorry – I cannot stay calm at a moment like this. I feel like this is ruining… no, I must remain strong. I won't let this overcome me. Samson… you are my enemy and a horrid, pathetic man; you are everything I despise in people, and what I scorn in myself, first and foremost. Now, I am trying to think – so I can explain - Are you _even_ listening?!"

Samson nodded, and then figured he should add, "I hear you."

"Why won't you look at me?" Cullen challenged him, "Dagna, I have had enough of this childlike display, make him look at me."

Obviously terrified by the outburst, the dwarf gave a gentle tug on Samson's bindings, but he merely nodded to show he was listening. He couldn't look up, not yet. It wasn't safe to look up. It wouldn't be brave. It was a death sentence.

"Cullen, my husband, you're doing it again."

"You're right," Cullen sighed, somehow even louder than before. Sweet blood of Andraste, how loud could the man exhale? "Maker, I don't know. This is wretched and wicked. I don't want any of it."

The Commander fell quiet, so much that Samson could hear the gentle jingle of the Mabari's collar as he got pats from Dagna. Cullen's reaction was not a surprise. Perhaps the rage had surprised Dagna, but Samson always knew Cullen had this quality. Only the closest of Cullen's friends found out, like that bloody Amell mage that Cullen had told Samson about once, like Samson, and now the Commander's wife.

If Cullen could be such an angry bastard and find somebody, it wasn't fair Samson felt alone. He knew it was from what Cullen said – that he'd pushed friend's away, potential lovers away, but he didn't like acknowledging this. True, plenty had left his side by circumstances beyond his control, but more didn't fit in this category. It made him wrap chains around his throat and try to end everything. It was much easier to blame the blonde fool in front of him.

Samson cautiously met Trevelyan's eyes, and then to Cullen, who was rubbing his temples, eyes closed and nearly moaning in self-criticism. He wasn't yelling. That was a good sign.

Dagna tugged on his chains again and Samson knew what to do.

"No apology can be repeated intensely or for long enough to purge the evil from me," he admitted, "and if I am able, despite its pointlessness, I lay down my pride for that too, but…" Samson closed his eyes temporarily to try stopping his body shaking. He grinded his teeth together for a few moments before keeping his chin high, "I don't want your forgiveness, Commander Cullen. I only want your mercy, your expertise, resources and ambition. It is over a decade too late, I know. It is… worse than any nightmare. I understand the depths of my despair with a cunning that would surprise you. My bones are as brittle as my hair, and my teeth are nearly stumps by how I chew at them. Even if I have drowned, if there is no way to ever breathe clean air ever again, no means to feel anything more than numbness, I won't let the lyrium or my shattered heart win the fight. Do not call it 'help' if it infuriates you, Cullen. The word can burn in the Deep Roads. Do not call it mercy if it inspires ugliness. Stand with me, arm in arm, doing nothing, saying nothing, if you must. Feel the rage, but offer the maddened head lock of a brother, and I have so little, it will give me hope."

Samson realized he couldn't see in front of him anymore. The garden and the people around him were a blur, a mix of colors, and the man hadn't stopped shaking. In fact, he was doing that odd thing his body did without warning or reason – his eyes were filling with tears. It always surprised him because his emotions didn't appear to exist anymore, like a demon had taken over his body. He felt like his speech wasn't over, he could rant about his regrets forever and it would not relieve his mind of them, but his eyes didn't want to see anymore.

He wiped them with both palms tied together, "Shit. My eyes weren't meant to do this. Blight – kill that dog." The Mabari had begun to sniff at Samson's thighs, but he ran his shackled wrists over it, "I mean, he's a nice puppy. Curse the unseen Maker. My words are gone."

Samson was shocked when he felt a little person hug him, Dagna, of all who would. She'd never clasped him before, even if she said she wanted to. It wasn't appropriate for a researcher to hug her subject. Still, she'd broken her own rules. "Samson told me," she said, "he didn't know what to do after the research was over. I think he should be given some freedom, maybe just in Skyhold. What do you think, your Worship?"

"Oh, shit." Samson muttered, realizing this was the most important detail he should have mentioned, "Piss, can't believe...Forgot."

The test subject thought he heard Cullen snort as the Inquisitor answered, "I don't see why not, but I will check how closer to the time, Dagna – and Samson. What brought on this, umm, sudden need for redemption?"

"I don't know what to do with myself anymore," Samson answered, looking at her shoes again, "I need inspiration. I need something to do, and you seem the best lot to ask."

There was a pause, as the man continued to wipe his quiet tears, and his shaking only seemed less because Dagna was hugging him. Soon Samson could see again, and Cullen was looking much the same as he had been before his outburst. He appeared tired, bitter and contemplative, but not as angry. He wasn't pacing or fuming.

"It all depends on how the Exalted Council goes, I'm afraid," Cullen said lightly, "for better or worse, those decisions will unravel our fate to a great extent." He paused, "but I will keep it in mind, Samson. I regret you waited this long to come to your senses. I admit, I am still tormented over it. Perhaps it is something ever present inside, as it is for you, but I resolve to do my best to put judgements aside again, and pray you do not throw them in my face _again_ , or the consequences... Maker knows I do not want to consider them."

"I'm sorry, Cullen," Samson repeated, dully. This time he wasn't lying or trying to manipulate. He just wanted to have hope again, have his brother in his life once more. All his other friends had moved on with their lives, disappeared or died and he wanted one person to stay, even if it was some show off idiot with too pretty a face.

Someday, Samson wanted to call Cullen his 'brother' again, like they used to in Kirkwall before it all went down the sink.

"Maker, the time!" the Commander swore, and he rushed past Samson, "My apologies, Samson, we need to leave in a hurry, get out of these clothes. Politicians to impress, you understand. I shall speak to you later in Skyhold, if you are still as clear thinking as you are now."

Dagna let go of him.

Maybe if the Exalted Council went well, there'd be a reason to resist death.

"I hope so," Samson said, and he gave a small nod of respect, "Thank you for… uh…"

He didn't know how to say thank you either, wasn't even sure those were the right words to say, especially how equally aggressive and horrible Cullen had been to him over the years too. The former Red Templar managed to catch the attention of the Inquisitor, "Mistress Rutherford, you have my respect. You prevented Cullen from killing me. A talent. One I don't have."

Trevelyan, who was about to disappear from the garden entirely, laughed, "Of course," for a split second she turned back, eyes alight, "why do you think I am his wife?"

The newlyweds departed and the Mabari went with them.

Even at his age, Samson wasn't sure what a wife truly meant, but he enjoyed Trevelyan's definition. Of that much he was certain.

There was no time to hear or chase reactions. All that remained was waiting and praying. Samson gave up praying long ago, but he wanted to see a light again, crawl toward a stronger spirit than his own, his only means of survival. Long ago, it had been a woman who had stolen his mind. Now, he went back further, to days in a warm prison, the roommate who used to whimper in his sleep.

"When we get back to Skyhold, I'll find out where to send your letters." Dagna said finally, appearing as exhausted as Samson felt. He was so awash with the words and madness of what had just happened that the bet had slipped his mind. Dagna was right. There were conditions to meet. He'd promised, among being showered with wine and Orlesian treats, to correspond with two of his old friends, those who acknowledged his crimes, but had probably forgotten him.

"Ah, shit."


End file.
